The Unspeakable Files: Expectation and Speculation
by AnotherSpoonyBard
Summary: [One-Shot] For 22Moons, a "missing scene" from Godspell. Draco and Blaise have a regular meeting at the Pale Hart, a chance for both of them to catch up once in a while. One of these meetings gets a little uncomfortable for Draco; after all, Blaise always knows more than he should. Draco/Blaise friendship, mentions of BZ/CW and pre-DM/LL.


_For 22Moons._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize, obviously._

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><p>The Unspeakable Files Universe<p>

Expectation and Speculation

An HP Fanfic

By AnotherSpoonyBard

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><p><em>The Pale Hart<em> was a gentlemen's club of high repute, one of wizarding London's finest establishments for those male individuals who desired to spend some time away from the prying eyes of family, or in some cases, press, and enjoy the best vintages of firewhiskey the importation business—both legal and somewhat more shady—had to offer.

It went without saying that the Malfoys had been in possession of a membership about as long as the place had been open.

Considering this, Draco's reception upon walking into the building was actually rather tame. The doorman offered to take his cloak, but Draco waved him off—it had become strange to him, eventually, to have other people do something so mundane for him. His father was still accustomed to it, but… there was just something about allowing another person that close that had come to bother him, with perhaps the exception of certain women. But that was an entirely different matter, and one that he quite truthfully preferred to keep as far from his mind as possible at present.

Right now, the best thing about the _Hart_ was that he wasn't going to see anyone that reminded him of a certain someone he couldn't seem to get out of his mind, of late. It was really a new low, this level he'd sunk to. Even his _dreams_ weren't safe anymore, though… all things considered, even this was better than what he'd been dealing with a few months ago.

Making his way to the room at the back of the building, he found Blaise already waiting, the swarthy wizard's close-cropped head of hair visible over the back of the leather-covered booth bench he was sitting at. The lit cigarette between his fingers produced a languid coil of smoke, snaking into the sandalwood-scented atmosphere with an air of utmost belonging. Draco took the seat opposite Blaise, the one facing the door. Quite likely, the Italian wizard had known quite well that it was the positioning Draco would want, and left it for him, his own lack of concern a subtle showing of his complete ease, something Draco was unsure he'd ever feel again.

"You're late," Blaise drawled, but the tone of his voice was only slightly amused rather than miffed, something that seemed to be the man's default tone. It had been since their school days, in all honesty.

Draco shrugged, picking up the menu on the table and tapping his desired drink order with a finger, given that he currently lacked a functional wand. The lowball glass appeared shortly thereafter, a neat firewhiskey from Ireland, and he raised it to his nose, drawing in a breath full of the contents. He was honestly pretty surprised his _Amortentia_ didn't smell like the stuff. Then again, it had been a very long time since he'd been around a batch of that nonsense. Maybe it would now.

He quashed the annoying voice in the back of his head that informed him that he already knew what it would smell like, and alcohol had no part in it.

"Duty calls, or something." Blaise's eyes narrowed in reptilian amusement, and Draco smirked.

"Well, well, look at you. Draco Malfoy, public servant. Don't tell the Prophet—the journalists would die of shock." Blaise took a drag from the cigarette, one of those thin continental ones, exhaling the cloud of smoke with an upwards tilt of his head. Draco had always secretly envied the other man his ability to remain so utterly unfazed in even the most dire situations—it was no doubt a trait that served him especially well as a cursebreaker, which was definitely one of the most high-pressure occupations there was, considering one tiny mistake could kill a person. Being an Unspeakable was at times not that different, but Draco didn't often have to deal with minute little _intricacies_ that could kill him; the witches and wizards with wands and poisons were usually his brand of danger. Sans trauma healers, he couldn't think of anything quite as maddening as what Blaise and Bill Weasley did.

"In that case, maybe I should. Pansy's been looking for a promotion." She and Draco didn't talk about work, as a rule, but it wasn't too difficult to figure Pansy out. She was simple that way. Not stupid, but uncomplicated. Not like—_damn_. There he went again.

"Mm." Blaise's noncommittal answer heralded a few moments of silence, which neither minded. If there was something to be said, they said it. If not, they didn't bother to clog the air with useless chatter. One of the benefits of being friends—much less pressure to make nice with someone for no reason.

"You know, I actually ran into Longbottom the other day. Bill and I were making a reference check at the Hogwarts Library for the case. Little shit's gone and become Herbology professor." Unlike most people, Blaise was not necessarily insulting someone by calling them a _little shit._ In fact, it almost qualified as a term of endearment, except he didn't really use those, either. "And surprise of surprises, there was a little Longbottom in tow." Blaise's nose wrinkled slightly, and Draco affected a shudder. Children were… well, not on his to-do list, to put it mildly. Blaise shared the opinion, unsurprisingly. Though…

"Charlie going on about adoption again, then?" he asked slyly, and Blaise pursed his lips. "It shouldn't surprise you. He _is_ a Weasley. They're probably not happy unless there are half a dozen brats underfoot, and Bill's only got the one." Blaise and Charlie Weasley had been comfortably domestic, or as domestic as Blaise was capable of being, for a couple of years now, and this was not the first time the conversation had come up. Blaise must be warming at least a little to the idea, though, because his reaction last time had been closer to abject horror than mere distaste. Whether it ever got any warmer would be anyone's guess. Merlin knew Draco would seize on the opportunity to hold his friend's sentimentality over his head if it did.

"I can't even begin to imagine growing up like that," Blaise replied factually. Like Draco, he'd been an only child, with only his mother around, for that matter. Family gatherings with his lover's entire extended network had honestly been the largest hurdle in their relationship to date. Thankfully, as Blaise often said, they were infrequent.

"I'm not sure I want to," Draco countered, shaking his head.

"But actually, no. That was not the reason I brought up Longbottom," the cursebreaker continued, blowing another smoky breath out of his nose. Draco tilted an eyebrow upwards, tapping the menu for another drink. Blaise never did or said anything without a very good reason, and the way he was scrutinizing him across the table, he wasn't going to like this mysterious purpose. Without waiting for the implied question to actually be vocalized, he continued. "I brought it up because he married Hannah Abbot."

Draco had a feeling he knew where this was going, and attempted to deflect. "Hufflepuff, nice arse?"

Blaise rolled his eyes. "If you feel the need to be crude about it, yes." They both knew he was intentionally changing the subject, though, and Blaise was not one to be derailed by such a poor attempt at it. "But, well… a bit unexpected, no? The way I understood things, smart money was on he and Lovegood getting together. Funny, that, considering how much time she spends with _you _these days."

Leave it to Blaise to actually be able to make him uncomfortable. Still, Draco wasn't an amateur, and he schooled his features into impassivity. "You know why that is, Blaise. The case—"

"Oh please, Draco. We both know it's not the case. What I'm confused about is why you haven't just fucked her and gotten it out of your system." Well, sometimes being crude and direct served a purpose, as it did in this case. Draco's face darkened visibly, causing a hitch in Blaise's perfectly-arched brow. "Merlin, Draco…. You haven't even bothered with anyone else in the meantime, have you? That is quite unlike you." And it was true enough—Draco's appetites were not exactly the stuff of secrets. It was part of the image he intentionally cultivated, to divert anyone from the suspicion that he was any more than he'd used to be. But it was also just a feature of his personality; Draco had never left the point in his life that involved casual one-time liaisons with basically any woman pretty and willing. Blaise found no especial issue with this—he was, after all, still in his mid-twenties. If there was any point in life that such things were acceptable, it was now.

Draco's silence was confirmation enough, and Blaise smiled slyly. Well, this was a nice little puzzle, wasn't it?

"Can we talk about something else?" Indeed, it looked quite like he was beginning to sulk, and a brooding Draco was really no fun. So Blaise obliged, turning the discussion to the kinds of things they usually spoke about: their families and friends, politics, a bit of work, if either had an interesting story to share, or in Draco's case, one that had been declassified. Blaise had never minded that he couldn't speak much about it—he wasn't the kind of person who needed to know all the gritty details. Well, unless there was leverage to be had in it, but that was a different sort of thing.

The time seemed to flow easily, and before Draco knew it, it was three hours later, well into the evening, and there was a pleasant, humming sense of slight vertigo in the back of his head. "I think I might—" he began, apropos of mostly nothing, since they had lapsed into a bit of a comfortable silence. Blaise blinked over at him, but Draco shook his head slightly. "Never mind."

"You could try a gift you know. Christmas _is_ approaching." Blaise seemed to have a better idea what Draco was thinking than he did. But then, that was basically the status quo with them. If it wasn't Blaise, it was bloody Severus, or his mother, or _her_. Everyone seemed to think they understood Draco Malfoy better than he did himself. Maybe they were even right. That didn't mean he had to like it.

"Yeah, yeah. Charlie's making you sentimental, you arse." Blaise rolled his eyes. He would admit he'd… softened, just a little, but he certainly hadn't lost his touch.

At any rate, their time was up for now, and both donned their cloaks before parting ways at the door. Rather than apparating directly home, Draco decided to walk off a little bit of his inebriation. He wasn't even properly drunk, but given all the strange things going on with his magic, and the risk inherent in apparition at less-than-full capacity, he chose not to risk it. He rather enjoyed being alive.

…And that was really the rub, wasn't it? He couldn't remember the last time he'd really enjoyed living. He hadn't hated it, of course, and only in his worst moments had he ever let himself consider what it might be like to end his life, but on balance he'd been too often in danger of death at someone else's hand to really think about bringing it upon himself. He'd wanted to preserve his existence, but it had always been something about his family or his friends or even his ambitions that had kept him moving. He'd never really thought that life was all that amazing for its own sake. When nothing in particular occupied or pressed on him, moved him in any way, he'd always just… _been_. But now it seemed, at least on occasion, that even when he had no immediate reason to be, he was… content. Happy might be a stretch, but even contentment was a large leap forward, or at least sideways.

His stride, naturally long given his rather impressive height, carried him swiftly down the twisting avenues of wizarding London, his monochrome wardrobe making the resemblance to his godfather even more obvious. He too now _glided_ and _swept_ places, though he had never really paid it any mind. Perhaps that was part of the reason it was so effective. Draco had never been one of those people who had to try too hard. Naturally talented at most of the things he put his hand to, he hadn't needed the extra perseverance of a truly hard worker to get himself by, not in school and not, until quite recently, anyway, in life. He'd simply skated by on what he was easily capable of, and had never especially felt the drive to do anything differently.

Being an Unspeakable had changed that, somewhat, and he'd actually had to _work _to successfully maintain his double-life, draining even on him. He realized with a start that he hadn't really gone out in a couple of months, practically forever as far as the gossip world was concerned. If he didn't rectify the situation soon, he would quite possibly be forgotten, more or less, by the celebrity-tabloid set.

He found it very difficult to care.

It might even be nice, to live just as himself. But if people wondered why he'd suddenly broken with old habits… he exhaled heavily through his nose. Would anyone even really look that deeply into it? Was he so cared about by the world at large that the cover identity was necessary? It seemed stupid, in the present moment, to believe that he was. Had he really been maintaining that reputation because of some overinflated sense of his own relevance?

Well, perhaps not quite. Like it or not, people did recognize him. Unless he wanted to start wearing glamour charms every time he went out, he did have to obscure things a little. Too many questions, otherwise.

He came to a stop quite suddenly, his eye drawn to a display in one of the store windows. A jeweler's, from the look of it, but most of the pieces did not interest him in the slightest. Generic things, shiny in all the right ways, but nothing he hadn't seen before. What caught him was something at once much more simple and also unique than that.

_You could try a gift, you know. Christmas _is _approaching. _

Draco pursed his lips, considering it. Would it say too much? Or not enough, maybe? What did he even _want _to say? Did she even—

He was being pathetic. Gritting his teeth, he turned away from the display window, but he hadn't made it more than three steps further before he huffed indignantly and reversed direction, heading into the shop. It couldn't hurt to get a closer look.

When he left, it was not empty-handed.

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><p><em>Just a little one-shot by request from my 100th reviewer, 22Moons. Thanks for all your support. For reference, this takes place during Godspell, just before the Christmas Chapters.<em>

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><p>Reviews desired but never required.<p> 


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